


Your Locks Will Be Iron and Bronze

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Shadwell Anathema Newt and Adam all make an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25595680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: “Below,” Gabriel says, tightening his grip. “Earth, Hell, I frankly do not care, but this ‘audience’ is over.”Do they think he won’t notice? That Crowley won’t pick up on the tiniest spark of Aziraphale? That they can hide his angel from him?Crowley’s nails are making dents in the desk. “And how do I know you’re not lying?”“I’m an angel,” Gabriel insists proudly. “We don’t lie. We use heavenly euphemisms.”The breathing space that Crowley described is shorter than expected. Just like Aziraphale and Crowley, Heaven is trying to buy time, and unfortunately for the two of them, severing the right ties requires more than paperwork.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 178





	1. Chew Toys

There is a seemingly universal agreement that in a vertical hierarchy, Heaven is at the top and Hell is rock bottom. Earth is somewhere in-between, like the sad excuse of a patty in a discount burger.

Crowley has a more complex view on these matters. Heaven and Hell appear to even each other out. Earth is left to stick out of the bunch like an olive on a stick placed on top of a neatly cut sandwich like the ones Aziraphale would bring along on their weekly picnics.

Now, however, Crowley is forced to reevaluate his priorities. Earth might come out on top, then Heaven and Hell can fight over who sucks the most, and then, below even the deepest pool of sulfur and the shiniest broom closet, the absolutely worst place to be – that’d be Heaven’s waiting room.

Crowley is aware that he should be grateful that he’s made it this far, not that he’d ever openly admit that. He’d half-expected to be rejected by the Pearly Gates or get assaulted by furious angels. So far, the only suffering he’s endured is waiting for his turn at the reception desk – a process that is indeed equivalent to torture when Aziraphale’s whereabouts are still unknown.

First, Crowley had gone to Hell for answers which had only resulted in Hastur accusing him of another haha-funny-joke. In hindsight, assuming Hell to be behind it is a bit of a kneejerk reaction. There hadn’t been signs of demonic influence in the bookshop. During his investigation, Crowley had picked up the heavenly scent of pure goodness and roasted pistachios – the latter explained by the half-empty bowl sitting lonely on Aziraphale’s desk amongst opened books.

The angel hadn’t finished his snack – he hadn’t planned to leave. He’d been taken, forced, _attacked_ while Crowley had been naïve enough to let him out of his sight. This isn’t the first time he’s staging the rescue of an angel, however, at least now they all know what’s at stake.

Hell isn’t behind this, and Crowley knows from baffling experience that Aziraphale has his own way of dealing with antagonistic humans, so that leaves Heaven as the sinner. No real surprise there.

“Oi!” Crowley sits up straight when another angel materializes in the room, heading straight for the desk. “No cutting in line!”

That’d be something a demon would do. Actually, it’s something Crowley would do, and he’s even tried to do so before the angel at the desk threatened to call security. Crowley is aware that his chances at an audience with Gabriel are slim, and he cannot afford fucking this up.

The new angel glares at him with cold, grey eyes. “You have to take a number.”

He gestures towards a display that Crowley swears wasn’t there before. He reads _661_.

Crowley leaves the couch – made of cold and hard white leather that can easily be replaced with a stone statue of the furniture without breaking the aesthetics or (lack of) comfort – and mutters something rather nasty under his breath. For the hundredth time that day, Crowley reminds himself that this is just Plan A – a.k.a. Plan Act Nice and Get Intel.

Should it backfire, the demon is ready with Plan B (Plan Blast the Door Open) that would involve simply knocking down the Pearly Gates. Preferably with the Bentley but that’d just give it dents. Dynamite, then.

Plan H for Hellfire (or maybe even further down the alphabet. Crowley is aware that it’d be a suicide mission, but he is yet to find out just what they’ve been doing to Aziraphale, and anger, hot and hungry like Hellfire, is already growing within him) will wait until he’s finally snapped. And considering his current situation, Heaven is just speeding up that process for him.

Crowley sends the secretary a strained smile to show off fangs and draws a tiny piece of paper from the machine. He reads the number _666_. Heaven’s humor has always been woefully outdated. Aziraphale is a rare exception. At times.

The other angels have left, and Crowley sharpens his glare as he watches the secretary call out a number, smile, wait for ten seconds, and then repeat the process through _662_ , _663_ , _664_ , _665_ and-

“667,” the angel calls, smiling.

“Hey!” Crowley marches over to slam his palms against the desk. It’s a disappointment when the secretary doesn’t even flinch. “You skipped me.”

“The Devil’s number is avoided by pure principle.”

“Fancy word for discrimination,” Crowley growls at throws the paper at her face. Two brightly blue eyes follow it as it slowly drifts downwards. “It’s _my_ turn.”

“Well, according to the number system, it’s number 66 _7_ ’s turn-“

Crowley flicks his wrist, and the dispenser sprays out a thousand tickets as if invisible national champions of tug-of-war wanted to empty it. The tickets fill the already white room, falling through the air like snowflakes.

The secretary blinks. 

“Right,” Crowley says and grabs a ticket that’s been hovering near his face. “I need to see Gabriel.”

“The Archangel Gabriel has a very busy schedule.”

“Tell him it’s the pain-in-his-arse demon who personally got his VIP-tickets to Armageddon refunded.”

The secretary angel is leaning towards the microphone when she hesitates again. The blue eyes blink up towards him. “Are you sure that’s the introduction you want to go with, sir?”

“It leaves an impression, doesn’t it?”

“It does. I know who you are.”

“And yet you let me wait!” Crowley huffs. “See, I thought that was naivety, but now it’s jussst a real bad move.”

She hears his hiss and coughs nervously, though her posture turns rigidly perfect as she calmly speaks into the microphone. “Archangel Gabriel, the demon Crawly is here to see you.”

The name almost makes him flinch. Almost. It’s more an offense than a bad memory now, and Crowley accepts it as another addition to today’s generous supply of provocations. “Seriously? No one’s updating the ledgers?”

Heaven should be nitpicky about those sorts of things. Maybe it’s just Aziraphale. Crowley has millennia’s’ worth of disappointing evenings where Aziraphale excused himself early due to another rapport in the need of editing and a strict deadline as ‘Gabriel is depending on his participation. Something about the flow of teamwork, as you must know’.

The secretary looks at her screen, then up at him. “Today’s your lucky day.”

“Doubt it,” Crowley says, feeling hollow. Even here, in Heaven of all places, he still can’t sense Aziraphale.

“A meeting got canceled. The Archangel Gabriel has time for you now.”

* * *

The hallway doesn’t have any doors. It’s endless and bright, and Crowley is feeling more thankful for his sunglasses than usual. At some point, they have to take a step to the right to avoid an angle on a hoverboard, and Crowley’s brain is filled with the image of Hastur, if not Beelzebub, riding one of those, and he doesn’t know what to do with that thought. Probably laugh. Satan, he longs to get drunk. Perhaps he will, later, depending on the news he’ll get from Gabriel.

The angel escorting him comes to a halt, and a stainless wall appears to _crack_ in a perfect symmetry, revealing a door that opens when the angel gestures towards it. Crowley steps into the office that is a whole lot of bright _nothing_ except for the polished desk and the purple-eyed angel behind it.

Judging from his relaxed posture and the annoyed-but-not-quite-alarmed frown, Gabriel has expected him.

A jolt passes down Crowley’s spine. There’s something… He can’t quite put his finger on it, but it leaves his skin tingling.

The archangel clasps his hands together, and the sound echoes in the barren, bright, endless room. “You wanted to see me?”

“No!” Crowley barks. The audacity. “I wanted to see Aziraphale. Being scheduled a meeting with you is one of the bigger disappointments in my life.”

“We all have our ups and downs.” Gabriel spreads his hands and bares his lips into a fake smile. His desk is empty save for the golden case that looks out of place. A reliquary, maybe. Crowley would have expected a stack of papers – maybe a MacBook would be more fitting. Digitalized Heaven and all that. “So. Aziraphale.”

Crowley can’t look away from the smile. _Shut your stupid mouth and die already_.

“Yes, we both know who he is. _Where_ is he?”

“Busy,” Gabriel says, confusing Crowley’s question with another wh-word. The angel doesn’t seem to care about the fact. “With paperwork. I know you two are, well, let’s call it unemployed.”

Crowley shrugs. That’s a pretty fair description. Not far off from what he’d describe himself with, though he’d argue they quit more than anything. Sure, they were probably fired _for_ quitting, but it was, after all, their own decision that led to it.

The important part, however, is the angel. The fire that’s been burning inside of Crowley ever since he realized what’s been taken from him is burning brighter than ever. He hasn’t expected a torture chamber. He’s feared it, maybe, due to unfortunate memories from Hell. But Heaven isn’t Hell. They have other ways. And that’s why the excuse of ‘paperwork’ doesn’t calm him the slightest.

He doesn’t miss the way Gabriel refers to Aziraphale like he’s here. Crowley is counting on Gabriel’s smugness, and he hates it. If they’d killed Aziraphale (They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. They’ve already tried. They wouldn’t, they wouldn’t, he would have felt it if they had. After discovering they’d taken his angel, there’d been anger in his chest to mask the fear, but there hadn’t been any pain. He would have felt it. They wouldn’t, they wouldn’t.), Gabriel would rub it in his face. Hell would have shown him the torture, a mutilated corpse perhaps, the spot of soot on the floor, but even though Heaven prefers to keep their hands clean, they aren’t above cruelty.

“But this is Heaven,” Gabriel continues. “Certain procedures must be followed. Aziraphale knows that.”

“Sure. That doesn’t mean he has to follow them,” Crowley hisses, digging his fingers into the edge of the desk. “Look, we can both pretend this place isn’t beginning to stink of sulfur. You tell me where Aziraphale is, I grab him, we get out of your greasy hair.”

Gabriel’s smile is strained now, and there are flashes of lightning in his purple eyes. ”I’m sure Aziraphale will come running to you the moment he’s done. Morally, we should make it clear that’s frowned upon, but you and I both know that’ll just tempt him, don’t we?”

Crowley could have killed him. He’d been so close. Just a few more inches and the Hellfire would have reached out and finished the job.

“I’m pretty sure the new rules were you leaving us alone.”

“Well, with Armageddon off the to-do list, we’re all just keeping busy.” Gabriel’s heavy hand lands on the case. Crowley’s eyes drift towards it. What does Gabriel keep in there? Cigars? Crowley doubts it. The Archangel wouldn’t be cool enough. “I sure hope Hell is giving their dogs chew toys to keep them occupied. Don’t want those sorts running loose.”

“Afraid of getting your feathers nicked?”

“Funny,” Gabriel says in a tone that practically screams ‘fuck you’. “Well, I am glad to report that Aziraphale is safe and sound.” His fingers drum against the shiny metal. “A bit caught up in the mess the two of you are responsible for, but aren’t we all? So, since we’re done here, I suppose you should go.”

“Go?” Crowley asks numbly. The tingling is still there, and his golden eyes widen as he realizes just what he’s feeling. He knows it. It’s familiar. He’s felt it for practically six thousand years with a few horrible interruptions. Like the time in the burning bookshop.

It’s Aziraphale. The essence of him, at least. Weak, so dim that Crowley can barely feel it, but it’s _there_ unlike when he’d been searching for the angel on Earth. Aziraphale’s here – far away, his presence so distant, but _here_ – and Crowley can’t stop staring at the golden case.

“Below,” Gabriel says, tightening his grip. “Earth, Hell, I frankly do not care, but this ‘audience’ is over.”

Do they think he won’t notice? That Crowley won’t pick up on the tiniest spark of Aziraphale? That they can hide his angel from him?

Crowley’s nails are making dents in the desk. “And how do I know you’re not lying?”

“I’m an angel,” Gabriel insists proudly. “We don’t lie. We use heavenly euphemisms.”

Crowley chokes on a bitter laugh. _Right_.

Gabriel’s fingers finally slide off the case when the doorway appears again, and in steps Michael, scanning the room with cold eyes.

“Gabriel,” she said before letting disgust crinkle her expression. “Demon.”

“Michael!” Crowley stands up, grinning. “Didn’t know you worked as a secretary! I mean, Hell is, well, Hell, and the plumbing is just awful, but at least they’re pretty strict about hierarchy. Do you guys even have business cards?”

The angel grimaces and keeps her glance on Gabriel. “There’s been some rescheduling.”

Gabriel quickly leaves his chair, unwilling to be the only one sitting, and moves closer to his colleague. “Ah. Well, we were just about done, anyway.”

“No. No, we are not ‘done’. This isn’t ‘done’,” Crowley says, making air quotes as he spits out the words. As Gabriel moves, Crowley follows, keeping his front towards them as he comes to stand with his back against the desk instead. “’Done’ is me and Aziraphale walking out of here and preferably never seeing any of your angelic faces again. That’s not a compliment.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Michael tells him. “If you’ve concluded your business here, I’ll let Aziraphale know to hurry up. I suppose you would count as encouragement.”

“You do that.”

“Know your place, demon.”

“And know that _we_ know it, in case you forget,” Gabriel adds, and both of the angels send him a last chilling smile before they just turn around and leave.

Crowley has to launch himself forward to get out of the doorway before it disappears, and when he stumbles into the white hallway, it’s empty. The archangels are gone, and there are no lesser angels either, which is a shame because Crowley’s fingers are itching to steal a hoverboard and slam it across Gabriel’s face.

Good thing his hands are already full. Behind his back, out of view, he’s clutching the golden case from Gabriel’s desk. He can feel the whisper of Aziraphale travel through the metal, vibrating inside of his bones.

It’s a comfort that keeps him from setting the place on fire as he leaves.

By the time Crowley passes through the Pearly Gates, his shoulders are hunched to keep himself from looking over them. He’s expecting to hear the sound of heavenly leather shoes against the polished floor as they would come running after him.

But they don’t.

The only attack is a verbal one as the secretary waves at him and says, “Have a blessed day!”

“Fuck you too!” Crowley says and snaps his fingers. The dispenser begins to spew out tickets again, and Crowley disappears in the tornado of white paper pieces.

* * *

Inside the bookshop, Crowley brushes pistachios off Aziraphale’s crowded desk and places the case on it. Among the clutter, it looks much more at home than when stuck in Heaven’s minimalistic style. Here the soft light has the golden parts appear to be glowing.

It doesn’t burn Crowley’s hands when he carefully examines the case. He can still feel the weird buzzing when his fingers run over carvings, some familiar, some not. The result is a beautiful display of craftmanship: silver wings spread across golden vines, finally connecting at the embedded lock.

Crowley gives the case a small shake. The presence is still there, and Crowley is relieved, but not thankful. Just who should he thank for this? He may have gotten Aziraphale back, but the situation is far from solved. He’s missing the key.

“Aziraphale? Angel?” Crowley calls, tapping a nail against the metal. “Maybe soundproof. Maybe not. Definitely angelic.”

He can feel the ethereal power surrounding it along with the weak scent of Aziraphale.

Squinting at the lock, Crowley snaps his fingers and curses when absolutely nothing happens.

Aziraphale’s in there. Somehow. Crowley is entirely sure that is the case though he isn’t sure _how_. Is it like trapping Hastur in the voicemail? Or is it Aziraphale’s essence they’ve tried to shelve? But it proves that Gabriel had been gloating. _I am glad to report that Aziraphale is safe and sound._

“Aziraphale,” the demon promises, holding the case. “I will get you out. I just need to deal with this blasted lock.” He imagines the lock exploding into smithereens. Nothing happens. “Or maybe cursed lock.”

It isn’t cursed.

Crowley spends the next day testing various tools. A lockpick, obviously. Then a screwdriver. Crowbar. A little blast of dynamite.

The case doesn’t even wear a scratch as a scar afterward. It’s just as polished and perfect and locked as it was before he began.

The next step is research. It’s not a step that he enjoys. It makes him feel desperate.

Crowley pats the golden case before he lets go of it to turn toward Aziraphale’s never-ending amount of books instead. He’s only just turned his back on it when he turns around, picks it up, and places it on Aziraphale’s favorite chair. Who knows what the angel can feel or hear in there? Crowley hesitates for another moment before miracling a cup of steaming tea in front of the case. The smell is painfully familiar, and while it _might_ comfort the trapped angel, it only serves to make the bookshop appear even emptier.

Crowley sighs. Then he gets to work.

He finds nothing. Just where should he begin? He hasn’t seen a trap like this before, and the warding is unfamiliar and doesn’t even react to his own magic. It infuriates him, truly. The case makes him feel _mortal_. It doesn’t listen to him. It won’t bend to his powers. It won’t open.

Crowley closes another book and muses over his final option.

“Hellfire would do the trick. Hellfire burns _anything_.” Even angels. Crowley sighs. “That’s the problem.”

He cannot do it. Not when he isn’t sure of what Aziraphale can sense in there. It might destroy the wards, but Crowley won’t risk it.

The demon puts a hand on the metal, searching for the familiar presence. “We’ll just have to improvise, then,” he says. “Any advice, angel?”

Crowley has one tool left to try out, honestly. He just wishes Aziraphale could talk him out of it.

* * *

“You’re confusing a witchfinder with a mere burglar,” Shadwell grumbles but leans over the case nonetheless. After discovering that his former employer is, in fact, a demon, some of the respect has been lost. No more _Mister_ Crowley. But he isn’t stupid enough to downright disobey Crowley’s request. Maybe it helps that Aziraphale had stayed in touch with Madame Tracy who’s been rather insistent to help.

“Same tools, apparently,” Crowley growls.

“I dare you to find me a burglar with a weapon equal to the great Thundergun of-“

“Just pick the blasted lock. You’ve done it before.” He leans closer, removes his sunglasses, and adds with a hiss, “And we both remember how that went.”

Crowley hasn’t forgotten the flames. How could he? Sure, maybe Shadwell isn’t exactly an arsonist, and it’d be unfair to blame him entirely, but demons aren’t supposed to be fair.

Shadwell pulls out a lockpick, and Crowley watches him work. He loathes admitting that the witchfinder is more of an expert when it comes to lockpicking. It’s not like Crowley hasn’t picked locks. As a demon, he’s used the more efficient method and simply miracle the lock open. Lockpicks hadn’t been needed except for emergencies.

Plus, if this thing is ethereal, maybe it’s meant to ward off demons but not humans. Maybe this is the trick.

Madame Tracy brings them tea and tilts her head in wonder. “Can Mister Aziraphale truly fit inside of that thing?” she asks, admiring the case that would fit in nicely among her crystal balls.

“He fit inside of you,” Crowley huffs in Aziraphale’s defense.

Shadwell growls, and the lockpick breaks.

Crowley leaves soon after, but not before snapping his fingers and leaving the toilet clogged.

* * *

Humans might be the answer. Humans as in plural. Crowley knows more than one which is fortunate when one of the humans is a useless witchfinder who can only pick open a lock when it’s inconvenient.

Some humans, however, are more powerful than others. Especially when they haven’t always been exactly human.

So Crowley drives to Tadfield. The case is in the passenger seat so that Crowley can reach out and touch it whenever he needs to. The energy is still there, ever-patient, waiting for him to figure it out.

He finds the book-girl and her tagalong first. By accident. But without running her over this time. Not that the impulse isn’t there; the couple is walking along the side of the road, holding hands, on a date, and, wow, the entire universe is really out to get Crowley to feel lonely, isn’t it?

The car comes to a halt, tires screaming. Crowley pokes his head out of the open window.

“Where’s the devil child?”

The witch dares to smile. “Hello, Crowley.”

“Hi,” Crowley says with the most obvious fake smile he can manage. “Adam Young. Where?”

“Why? Is there another Armageddon going on?”

This is beginning to feel like the end of Crowley’s world, actually. He glares at her. “Not quite.”

“He should be somewhere in the village. Give us a lift, and we’ll help you find him.”

“I’ve always wanted to drive one of these things,” Newt says as he walks around the Bentley. “I can appreciate these lovely machines, you know. Owner of a vintage car myself.”

Crowley flinches when the human hand pats the roof. “Big difference between vintage and trash.”

“Can I drive it?” Newt asks and immediately takes a step back. Even the sunglasses can’t protect him from the daggers Crowley’s eyes are sending in his direction. “Sit in the passenger seat?” he weakly suggests instead.

“Occupied.”

Newt tilts his head and looks inside. His eyes go wide. “That’s a really pretty box.”

“Touch him,” Crowley hisses, “and you’ll find yourself wearing two left hands. Then we’ll see if you can tell the difference.” Reluctantly, Crowley puts the case in his lap, only so that the humans can crawl into the backseat.

“ _Him_?” Anathema asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Heaven got creative with their punishments,” Crowley says. He caresses the metal one more time, bumps and engravings familiar by this point, before handing it over to the witch. “I can sense him.”

“How?” Newt asks, doing his best to be a part of the conversation. “Is it like an aura? Or like a smell?”

Anathema is squinting. “I can see it. Faintly.”

“And I can smell it. Old books, right?”

Crowley can’t help but blink in surprise. Newt is inhaling deeply as if he’s been given a free sample in a perfume shop. Crowley didn’t realize humans could pick up on Aziraphale’s scent as well. The human is right about the books, but there is more to it. It’s a mix of yellowed papers, aged wine, and a freshly baked apple pie. Crowley likes to believe he’s the only one who can pick up on the finer nuances.

“But it’s different,” Anathema continues. “I’ve seen Aziraphale’s aura. This is nothing like it. A spark if it even counts.”

“Maybe the metal is blocking it.”

The witch runs a finger across the surface, examining it. She stops at the lock. “Silver. Gold. Copper. Probably iron. Maybe even more.”

“Don’t suppose you can pick a lock?”

“Afraid not.”

“And you.” Crowley turns towards Newt instead. “Don’t suppose you can touch it and it’ll break?”

“I can always try.”

It doesn’t work. Newt even gives it a soft knock, and the lock refuses to open.

Crowley sighs and snatches the case from the human. “Give him back,” he says and uses his sleeve to wipe away any greasy fingerprints. If Aziraphale has to be stuck in an over-decorated cigar case, Crowley will be sure it stays flawless for the angel’s comfort.

“I think you are on the right track,” Anathema says while looking out of the window. “If Adam can’t open it, who can?”

“Did you just try to comfort me?”

“You can always try to call a locksmith,” Newt suggests.

“Over there.”

Crowley follows the witch’s finger and swerves the car towards the kid that’s just rounded the street corner on his bike. The Bentley stops just in front of him, either by the car’s own doing, Crowley’s amazing reflexes, or demonic influence.

Adam doesn’t even flinch.

“Antichrist,” Crowley greets him as he stumbles out of the Bentley. “Can you open this?”

He shoves the golden case into Adam’s hands, and when the small fingers close around it, Crowley feels oddly breathless. This has to work. If Adam could restart reality, the lock has to listen to him.

Adam turns the case over with a puzzled expression. “Is there a treasure inside?” he asks, and disappointment begins to seep into his glance. “Doesn’t look like it’s been lying in the ocean for hundreds of years.”

“It hasn’t,” Crowley says. It contains something more important. “Aziraphale’s trapped inside, and you’re gonna get it open.”

“Is it a puzzle box?” Adam says, turning the case upside down. “Pepper had one of those. She ended up smashing it open with a cricket bat. But all you had to do was push the hidden piece.”

Adam runs his thumb across one of the silver wings, and something gives in to his touch. There’s a click. The case opens.

Crowley’s golden eyes widen. “Wha-“ he says, but cuts himself off to rip the case from Adam. Finally, Crowley can lift the lid and peek inside. There, in the middle of the pearly white upholstery, rests a single, small white feather. One of Aziraphale’s down.

The sunglasses fall off Crowley’s face. He miracles them back on. The demon cannot breathe. He doesn’t need to. Either way, the only thing his mouth lets out is a furious hiss. Then:

“Where’s the bloody rest of him?!”

Crowley doesn’t expect an answer. No one gets the chance to answer him, either, because the next second Crowley is gone. He’s done playing nice and refuses to use the main entrance again.

With the sudden absence of the demon, the case falls and hits the pavement. When Anathema looks up, Adam is already gone, his bike disappearing at the end of the road now when the task is done.

A sudden wind sweeps through Tadfield.

Anathema widens her eyes.

“Newt!” she calls out. “The feather!”

Newt jumps forward, barely able to close his fingers around the shaft as he loses his balance and falls into a hedge.

“Aha!” he cries, and then horror dawns on him as the breeze returns and forces the feather out of his feeble grip. “Oh no.”

The feather lets itself be pulled away and flies away from the humans, up towards the sky.

Heaven is, coincidentally, where Crowley teleported himself to. Well, Heaven’s waiting room.

The secretary is waving at him. “Mr. Crawly. Back so soon?”

Crowley ignores her and all ideas of courtesy. There are still a few tickets on the white floor, but that’s not his problem. His problem is the Pearly Gates that isn’t technically a gate but a big glass door that refuses to open for him.

The demon slams a tightened fist against the glass, and it _hurts_ as if he’d forced his skin against barbed wire.

Crowley turns around to march towards the secretary who hasn’t even left her office chair. “Tell Michael to get his feathery arse down here or-“

“That’s not a nice word.”

“Then tell him to get his feathery buttocks down here and smile while doing so.” Crowley leans over the desk, glaring down at her. “Actually, I’m done being nice.” He takes off his glasses. “You have ten seconds.”

“I-“

But ten is too long. Crowley had thought Aziraphale patient, but now he knows that he hasn’t made any progress. He never knew where they’ve put Aziraphale. The last days have been nothing but a waste of…

…time.

A breathing space before the big one. Aziraphale and Crowley had achieved their breathing space by making the other side unsure of what to do with them. Heaven still hadn’t figured out, and so their option was limited. Create breathing space. Lock them up. Keep them busy. Nothing finite, though they wish they could achieve just that…

Heavenly euphemisms…

_I sure hope Hell is giving their dogs chew toys to keep them occupied. Don’t want those sorts running loose._

A chew toy. A useless case containing a single feather just to have the scent drive him mad. Just to keep him busy.

“Four, three-“

“Security!” the angel screeches into the microphone. Crowley watches as she lets go of the red button to scramble backward, away from him.

There’s a crash of thunder in the distance, and Crowley spins around to see the glass door opening. Four guards have appeared, coming in his direction. With their white suits and disgruntled expressions, they look more like businessmen stuck in traffic than actual military. Hell, stressed businessmen are more aggressive than this.

The real problem is the angel leading them. Short, angry, rat-eyes. Crowley recognizes him as Sandalphon.

“Not the Wankwings I want to see but it’ll do,” Crowley shrugs as he faces them. He considers bringing forth his wings, just for the show of it. “Take me to Aziraphale.”

“He’s off-limits,” Sandalphon sneers back at him. “As is all of Heaven to you, demon. As you know.”

“You-“

Another clash of thunder, louder this time. They both turn to meet Gabriel’s purple, displeased eyes. “Ahem,” he says, spreading his hands. “Hi. Demon. Long time, no see. Well, not really.”

The last time, Gabriel hadn’t been smug. He’d been calm, in control. Crowley understands why now. Because he’d done exactly what they’d expected, practically throwing himself at the lure.

Now Gabriel can smirk all he wants because Crowley had fallen for his trick. Sure, it’d only kept him out of Heaven for some days, but it’d worked. They can keep going, actually. Dangle Aziraphale in front of Crowley with empty promises, knowing Crowley can’t risk Aziraphale’s safety. It keeps them occupied, trapped, a threat neutralized without the use of Hellfire and Holy water-

“’Keep the Hellhound busy’. That’s not a euphemism. That’s a metaphor! Or is it allegory?” Crowley growls, fully aware that he’s painfully outnumbered. “I’m sure Aziraphale would know. Bring him out, would you.”

“Afraid not,” Gabriel says unapologetically. “And I’m also afraid our conversation is over. Schedule’s all filled out. Busy day in Heaven. You could – and should – draw a number, but I believe there’s quite the queue.”

“According to the system, there are 2478 in front of you,” the secretary adds helpfully. “Next.”

The display above them shows _984_. The dispenser has run out of tickets. Crowley is ready to curse the entire world, Heaven, Hell, and himself included.

Gabriel has disappeared, and Sandalphon and his goons are advancing. Crowley would _pay_ for the opportunity to smack a hoverboard across the angel’s face, but he’s out of hoverboards and time and options.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Crowley says and snaps his fingers.

* * *

Crowley reappears by the Bentley, naturally, that is currently being guarded by Anathema and Newt. The latter is pulling the handle again.

“We could always hire a towing company,” he says when the car still won’t open.

Anathema isn’t surprised. “He’d curse you if he found out,” she warns him and sits down on a nearby bench instead.

“It’s just to keep it safe _\- Ohgod_ ,” Newt gasps when he’s suddenly staring at a demon.

Crowley is still fuming with anger though it isn’t technically directed at the humans. They are just in his way.

Heaven has Aziraphale and they are done being subtle about it. Gabriel said Aziraphale is forced to do paperwork, but how can Crowley trust that when everything else has been a messed-up allegory? At least their plan doesn’t seem to rely on Hellfire. And it’s _Heaven_. They can’t possibly be torturing the angle. Can they?

Not to imply they won’t try to hurt Aziraphale. Crowley has been dealing with the aftermath of the damage inflicted on Aziraphale by Heaven for the last six thousand years. It’ll take time, it’ll take comfort, it’ll take reassurances that Aziraphale probably won’t trust until Crowley has repeated them a thousand times, but at least the demon is practiced in caring of the one Principality Aziraphale.

“That was soon,” says Anathema as she stands up.

“Shut it,” Crowley hisses and shakes his head as he desperately tries to find the case he left behind in his anger. He doesn’t need it, not anymore, but he forgot something important in his rush. “Where’s-“

“Here,” Anathema says and gives it to him.

Crowley opens it. His eyes widen. “Where’s his feather?!”

* * *

The breeze is, tragically, invisible, but the feather does a great job of showing just where the wind blows. It goes east first, over the fields, towards the apple plantation. It flies upwards until it doesn’t, and then it drifts to the west, down and down and down, towards the little house surrounded by a lovely garden with newly planted roses, weathered lawn chairs, and a red cat resting on top of an embroidered pillow.

Cats sleep approximately fifteen hours a day, so perhaps it is reasonable to call it a miracle when the tabby cat opens its tired eyes and squints towards the feather that is falling ever so slowly until it lands on the green grass.

When the cat pounces, the breeze returns, carrying the feather out of the garden but not out of danger. The paw hits it twice before it’s pinned against the pavement.

The cat looms over it.

A dog barks, and the cat hisses before making a run for it, disappearing into the nearest hedge. It stays on the other side as the dog growls and begins to dig.

“Dog!” a boy calls out, always right behind it.

The feather drifts towards the bike.

* * *

The search for the feather is interrupted the moment Anathema accidentally reveals that Newt had actually managed to catch the feather before it was lost to the breeze. The next ten minutes include less searching and more yelling as Crowley releases days’ worth of pent up frustration on an easy target.

To be fair, it’s been a really shitty week. The metaphorical hole in Crowley’s chest feels infected around the edges, sore and swollen and untreated.

The second interruption comes in the shape of four kids on their bikes and a barking dog.

“Adam,” Crowley says and looks up. He’s brought back his sunglasses the moment he was back on Earth. The need to shield his eyes is bigger than usual. They’re burning for some unspeakable reason.

Adam steps off the bike and lets it fall to the ground. His hand is busy holding onto a single white feather. “This isn’t yours,” he tells Crowley. “But I think you need to hold it.”

Crowley does as he’s told. He clings to it as if it were his lifeline. He can feel Aziraphale again. The presence is still weak, but stronger than when it’d been locked inside the case. But it still isn’t real. It’s just the remains of his angel. It can barely even count as a comfort. It’s a threat more than anything.

“Did you find Aziraphale?” the witch asks him.

“I don’t know where he is,” Crowley admits brokenly.

“I think it does,” Adam says, nodding towards the feather. “Is it windy in Heaven? It must be if it’s up there.”

Crowley blinks. “Pretty sure they got AC, actually,” he says numbly and disappears.

* * *

The Archangels are gone, and so Crowley dares to fully materialize inside the waiting room. The secretary is still there, playing with a phone, but looks up when he marches towards the glass door.

Crowley holds up his free hand. “I have an appointment.” The other hand is busy holding onto the feather. There is no wind inside Heaven’s offices, but the feather sure makes it look like there is. It’s doing its best to escape Crowley’s grip, blowing towards the Pearly Gates.

The secretary looks at her screen to check the truth of his words, and while she is busy, Crowley holds his breath and lets himself be led by Aziraphale’s feather. It brings him closer and closer to the glass until-

-Crowley simply walks through it.

He comes to a halt then, puzzled by the fact that it works, but the feather is inpatient and almost slips out of his fist. Down the hallway he goes, then, thankful for the lack of angels roaming around.

It’s a matter of time, he’s sure, before the Archangels will be informed of his presence, and he cannot afford getting stopped when he’s so close.

The feather suddenly jerks to the left as if the wind changed. Crowley stops and turns to face the white wall. The feather wants to go in there, and it’s allowed to be in Heaven due to its ethereal connection, coming from an angel wing and all that. Crowley holds onto it, closes his eyes, and imagines there’s a door that will open for him and take him to Aziraphale.

Crowley opens his eyes and steps inside. The door closes behind him.

The feather falls dead in his hand. The wind has disappeared. In fact, Crowley is pretty sure the room doesn’t have any air at all. It’s white and bright, quiet, and never-ending. From where he stands, he can’t see any walls.

“Aziraphale!” he calls, and it doesn’t even echo. He stores the feather in the pocket of his jacket. “Angel!”

The room might fell dead, but it isn’t empty. Not completely.

There’s a desk a few meters in front of him, and when Crowley takes a step forwards to investigate, something is crushed beneath his shoe. Before Crowley can pick up the unfortunate item, he realizes that the entire floor is covered with them.

Paper balls. Crowley kicks them aside to get to the desk that is the source of the crumbled papers.

Well, Gabriel had warned him. _Paperwork_.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley yells again, but he cannot remove his eyes from the stack of paper near the edge of the desk. He picks up a few sheets and reads.

He quickly picks up on the theme.

_Please describe in detail your incidents of sin through the millennia that have led to your termination_.

And:

_Please exemplify the following list of sins. For example; sullying the temple of a celestial body with gross matter is an example of gluttony, and failing to comply with heavenly orders is an example of sloth._

And

_Please rate the following attributes of a fallen angel from atrocious to unforgivable._

_-Sloth  
-Lust  
-Disobedience  
…_

Crowley stops reading and follows Aziraphale’s example by crushing the papers into balls. An angry snarl leaves his mouth as he looks down and sees that the floor is covered with finished paperwork. He recognizes Aziraphale’s neat handwriting that is forced to explain just how he failed to be a good angel.

Giving in to his anger, Crowley pushes the stack of paperwork off the desk, but when he looks up again, another stack has replaced it in its spot. The source of paper is never-ending as Aziraphale has proved by covering the entire floor with paper.

Paper sheets, paper balls, and then, the farther Crowley steps into the room, paper figures. The boredom (isolation, Crowley’s brain screams. They left him in here, alone.) must have led Aziraphale to be creative and make an attempt of origami.

Crowley sees a weak attempt of recreation of Noah’s ark. Figures that might be a giraffe, might be a horse. Hard to tell. Frogs, maybe. Lions. Then wings. So many winged figures.

They cover every inch of the endless floor, and Crowley spins around, failing to see the exit, the walls, the silhouette of an angel.

“ _Aziraphale_!”

Crowley can feel him. It’s weak, weaker than when he’d been carrying around that stupid case, but it’s there. It’s not like back in the burning bookshop.

It’s there, and Crowley has to follow it and drag the angel out of danger like he’s done too many times before. It cannot be different this time.

“Angel!”

The demon walks deeper into the room, paper being crushed under his shoes with every step like walking on freshly fallen snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo gosh, so, well, hi. This is my very first fic for this fandom, and I admit, I'm probably more anxious than I should be. But here I am, and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. The second one will be out soon. It's been fun to write for these characters, and I already have plans for future fics.
> 
> English isn't my native language, so I apologize for any mistakes I didn't catch!


	2. Apple Trees

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s voice is hoarse by now. It hurts, but it helps him keep track of time. There is no other way to tell it in this midst of nothingness. Just his sore throat, frayed patience, growing fear, and trail of crushed paper beneath his shoes. “Angel! Aziraphale, where are you?!”

“Crowley?”

The reply is so quiet, Crowley doesn’t believe it at first. The room is cursed, he is sure. The silence is so thick you can choke on it, and it won’t surprise him if his brain is simply trying to give him what he wants. It won’t be real, it won’t count.

Except-

Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s presence, growing stronger by every step he takes forward. He can believe it is real.

But now he fears if Aziraphale, who’s been stuck here for who knows how long, can ever believe in his presence.

“ _Aziraphale_!” Crowley cries out louder this time. He is running, willing to curse any sheet of paper that dares to make him slip. “Aziraphale! Aziraphaaaale!”

His golden eyes, burning by the brightness of blasted Heaven, spots the angel. He is almost washed out by the overwhelming whiteness, but Crowley _sees_ him. He is kneeling among the papers. Is he praying? No, his hands are not folded – he is snapping his fingers.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, standing so close to him that he can reach out and touch him. He doesn’t. He just lingers his gaze on him, checking for any injuries. He finds none.

Slowly, Aziraphale turns his head and looks up at him. His eyes widen. “Crowley,” he says in an exhale.

The angel stands up and stumbles. Crowley catches him by the arms, fingers digging into the worn fabric of his coat. “Angel,” Crowley says and doesn’t let go. “Found you.” Aziraphale is holding onto him just as tightly, and Crowley can taste blood in the air, faint but enough for his forked tongue to pick up on. “Knew I would. They couldn’t keep me away.”

Crowley lets his hand slide down until they reach Aziraphale’s. The demon squeezes them before flipping them over to show plump fingers covered in papercuts. When the room won’t allow Crowley the magic to heal them, he hisses angrily.

“I knew you would, too,” Aziraphale says, oblivious to Crowley’s anger. He is smiling and crying at the same time. “And that was comforting. And horrifying. Oh, Crowley, you shouldn’t be here, but I’m glad all the same.”

“You were keeping yourself busy.”

There a few paper swans on the floor, surrounded by paper balls. Crowley’s eyes are drawn to the few soot marks that stain some of them.

“Just until you’d arrive.” Aziraphale’s hands are shaking despite Crowley’s grip on them. “I got rather tired of it, actually. Tried to put them on fire here at the end.”

“I’ve taught you so well.”

“Not well enough, it seems.” The angel sniffs and leans closer towards him. “The fire wouldn’t catch.”

Of course not. Crowley’s surprised that Aziraphale had the strength to summon a miracle strong enough for a single spark. No, not _surprised_. Impressed.

“Burning to death in here doesn’t seem like much fun, though. Let’s get out of here.”

Aziraphale lets out a quiet noise that makes Crowley want to hug him and let Heaven burn around them for all he cares. “Crowley,” the angel says and shakes his head.

“C’mon, angel.” Crowley squeezes his hands again. They are so cold. “Think I’d deal with Heaven’s secretary just to leave you here?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have much to say in the matter.” Aziraphale pulls away to gesture towards the nothingness surrounding them. While his smile remains, he looks more defeated than Crowley has seen him since- Well, since the day the angel had ended the Arrangement. “This is a part of Heaven, and, as Gabriel firmly let me know, I am to suffer Heaven’s punishment. It will not let me out.”

“It let me in,” Crowley shrugs.

A spark returns to Aziraphale’s eyes when he tries to figure out how that is possible. It’s a good sign. “That’s curious.”

“I had this,” Crowley says and pulls the feather from his jacket.

“Oh.” Aziraphale plucks it from his fingers to cradle it. “I must have dropped it. Thank you.”

“Marched right in with that in my hand.”

“I suppose it must help confuse our essences. Make you appear that you had a verified purpose.”

“I did,” Crowley says, and ignores how apparently entering Heaven to rescue Aziraphale would not be a ‘verified purpose’ without the down. “I’ve come to break you out.”

“Crowley.”

“Really, angel. I’d burn down this whole place for you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale cries and lets himself fall into Crowley’s embrace. He shudders at the touch but leans into it. “And it wouldn’t work. I’ve tried. For a very long time, I tried, and I waited, of course, but-“ There is a haunted look in Aziraphale’s usual sharp gaze. “I even filled out the _stupid_ paperwork, but it just never ended. At this point, I’m not even sure what Gabriel wants- No. No, that is wrong. He wants to keep me here, I’m sure.”

“The bastard,” Crowley spits through gritted teeth. Maybe he can still steal that hoverboard and use that as a torture instrument. “I’ll kill him.”

Aziraphale sighs deeply. “He’s trying to be kind, actually. Gabriel.”

“Kind?!” Crowley sputters. “Tell me, angel, what that kindness has brought you? Because you look like shit.”

“I can imagine I do. I- Crowley, it’s-“ Aziraphale closes his eyes, and Crowley wants to tuck him in bed and tell him to sleep for a decade, though he knows the angel would never accept that level of comfort. “One would expect the punishment to be Falling. They cannot force me to, and I suspect they are as confused as I am when it comes to why I haven’t Fallen yet.”

The angel glances down towards the papers. _Fallen angel_. _Sins_. _Unforgivable_.

“I’ll give you a good reason as to why that’s the case,” Crowley tells the only good angel Heaven has left. “A thousand reasons.”

Aziraphale doesn’t look like he believes him, but he smiles nonetheless. “I do not doubt that Gabriel thinks I’m a bad angel. But to place me here … It’d be a rather clean solution. Keep me out of their sights would prevent any, well, troublemaking from me. And it’d minimalize the chance of me Falling by committing more sins. In their eyes, this is to save me from myself.”

“Or they are trying to pressure you into Falling. Make you doubt yourself. That’s not _kindness_.”

“It’s a possibility,” Aziraphale admits. “But I prefer to think there was some compassion involved in this.”

Crowley wants to argue. Bitter words are ready at the tip of his tongue. He would shake Aziraphale until the angel would see that Heaven does not deserve him. But while that might be the truth, it would only serve to make Aziraphale feel worse.

“It doesn’t matter,” Crowley says instead. “Any idea of how to get out of here?”

Thoughtfulness replaces Aziraphale’s pained expression. It’s a nice change. “Leaving should not be a problem for you. You are not supposed to be here.” The angel points his thumb at his chest. “I’m the problem. In more than one way, so to speak.”

Crowley opens his mouth to reassure him, but the words won’t form. The angel is right, of course. Crowley cannot drag him out of the room if the door won’t appear for him. He will get him out, or he will stay here with him. That much is clear. Crowley can leave, but what should he leave for? An empty bookshop? A smirking Gabriel? Annoy Heaven until the desk lady will call for security again?

Except…

“Aziraphale, I have an idea,” Crowley says. “I will come back.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says with the saddest smile. “I know, I do, I wouldn’t doubt you.”

Despite his words, the angel holds Crowley’s hands tighter. A tremor runs through him.

“I promise, angel,” Crowley says and forces himself to pull away. “Don’t sign anything while I’m gone,” he says in a weak attempt of humor, and before he can have second thoughts, he turns around and walks out of the door that appears for him. He doesn’t want to see the look on Aziraphale’s face as he goes.

Heaven seems eager to get rid of him. The only distraction comes in the form of a single angel on a hoverboard that Crowley considers stealing for a moment, but he cannot afford to slow down, not when Aziraphale is stuck alone in a room that seems to twist time as it pleases. Instead, as he runs down the hallway, Crowley snaps his fingers and suppresses a cackle (he isn’t that much of a cliché) when the angel loses his balance and smacks his perfect face against the white wall.

The angel is still yelling in the background when Crowley goes through the Pearly Gates, but the demon doesn’t mind the commotion. It’s about to get way worse.

When Crowley hovers above her, the secretary jumps so high from her chair, Crowley thinks for a moment she might just sprout wings.

“Hi, sweetheart, maybe you could help me out.”

“I’ll call security,” she warns him, finger less than an inch away from the red button.

Crowley’s eyes don’t leave it. “That’d be just fine, yes.”

The secretary springs to action. “Intruder! Intruding demon at the front desk!” She’s forced a finger with a golden nail down on the button and is crying into the slim microphone. “Security!”

“Actually, I was just leaving, wasn’t I?” Crowley thinks out loud. “So that makes me not your problem. How wonderful for you. Off you go.”

“Oh?”

“Seriously. This is your chance to flee. You should consider using it. Real warning from a demon, there,” he says and forces fangs to appear for emphasis.

It works. She backs away, glancing towards the glass door where they can both hear footsteps grow louder and louder. Crowley gives her a final, small wave and a cold smile, and the angel is smart enough to disappear from the room.

Crowley wastes no time to jump over the desk and place himself in the office chair. It’s comfier than it looks, way better than the couch. Crowley gives it a spin, just to calm the nerves, and rests his feet on top of the desk at the same time five angry angels burst through the Gates.

Gabriel is the first one to spot him. He doesn’t manage to look angrier than Sandalphon who is marching by his side.

“Do we really have to throw you out?” Gabriel asks him as they advance on the desk and the demon behind it.

“ _Again_ ,” Sandalphon adds with a bitter grin.

“With you forcing our hands like this, I don’t see we have any other choice but to get physical-“

“I want a chat,” Crowley cuts off the archangel. He can see the guards stiffen in surprise behind their superiors. “A private one.”

“I remember our meeting having a satisfying conclusion.” Gabriel looks genuinely confused. “And the first time you knocked, you did leave on your own terms. Not that it’s surprising that a demon would dare to steal from Heaven-”

“I’d personally find it humiliating, but maybe you do want all of Heaven to discuss just how high an angel can jump when Hellfire is spat at them-“

Crowley _smiles_.

His words, perfectly planned and spoken with a casual tone, have the expected effect. Gabriel and Sandalphon both widen their eyes filled with rage, but Crowley spots the fear in the purple color. The guards look confused but don’t dare to speak up.

“Very well,” Gabriel says, clearing his throat. "Let’s go to my office.”

“No. I like this chair.” Crowley leans closer to the microphone, and he can see the archangels follow his every move. They understand the threat.

Gabriel and Sandalphon share a glance, and then the latter leaves with the guards.

Crowley is left alone with Gabriel who keeps adjusting the sleeves of his suit. “I don’t know what lies Aziraphale has told you-“

“Of course, _you_ wouldn’t jump,” Crowley practically purrs. “You’d fear tearing your suit. Running away doesn’t look good when you can’t cover your arse. So how about backing off instead?”

Perfectly white teeth are gritted to the point they might break. “What do you want?”

“Let Aziraphale out. And leave us alone.”

“And you are threatening me to achieve this?”

Gabriel huffs like the very idea is unbelievable, but Crowley remembers how he’d looked a few inches away from Hellfire.

“Aziraphale told me about his execution,” he says. “Funny thing though – I had one too, but before it, I had a trial. Hell gave me a trial – that’s a pretty low standard, and yet you all failed to match it.”

“We’d already been presented the evidence-“

“Not even a public execution.” Crowley shakes his head and tsks. “And you wouldn’t miss an opportunity to brag – to _mock_. And you kept it a secret.”

Gabriel’s face is made of stone, but the flinch is visible in his eyes. Crowley smiles until his cheeks hurt. He has backed the archangel into a corner.

It’s the only way to defeat him. Without Hellfire, at least.

“And I know why,” Crowley continues. “You don’t want them to know.” He dangles his finger near the button, letting him know that he is but a split-second away from speaking to all of Heaven.

“You-“

“It’d be terrible, really, to let angels know they can misbehave without taking the first elevator to Hell,” Crowley muses. “You don’t get kicked out for asking questions now, it seems. Tough luck.”

Gabriel’s nostrils flare. “Aziraphale committed treason-“

“And didn’t fall.” Crowley shrugs. “But you just keep punishing him. Here I thought it was the Top Boss who made judgments.”

“This isn’t punishment,” Gabriel insists and looks like he is one push away from physically stomping the floor. “Well, it _is_ , but not a final one. We won’t have a repeat of the Hellfire accident.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Flames might nick you the next time.”

“Aziraphale’s not harmed. He’s _fine_. He is working. He is kept busy, and away from your temptations. We are showing him kindness, really, postponing his Fall. Take him away from you and Earth before he can be corrupted further.” Gabriel puffs out his chest. “Imagine if the Tree had been placed _outside_ the garden walls? Hmm? Makes you wonder what kind of world we could have had.”

It’s easier than expected. Just how far can Crowley push the Archangel Fucking Gabriel? Oh, he still remembers the execution. The _smirks_. The expectations and the self-righteousness.

“Questioning the Lord’s exterior design, are you, Gabriel? I’m almost proud.”

“I’m _not_.” Gabriel flinches, and it’s almost better than the time with the Hellfire. The angel looks deeply uncomfortable now as if his suit is too small. “How dare you- That was an allegory!”

“Metaphor!” Crowley corrects him.

“Yes.” Gabriel adjusts his collar. “ _Figurative_. An illustration so you can understand that I am doing Aziraphale a favor.”

“Well, stop that,” Crowley snarls. “We don’t want your _kindness_. We want you to fuck off. We get out of your hair, you get out of ours. Or-”

Gabriel looks unimpressed, and Crowley cannot afford to be taken by surprise. He forces his finger against the button, enough for the skin to meet the plastic, but not enough force to turn on the microphone. Yet.

“Gossip’s a sin,” he says and locks eyes with Gabriel. “And I know plenty of sinners. Want to see what one forbidden whisper can turn into?”

“I’d have to trust you to keep Aziraphale’s mouth shut,” Gabriel says, and while it’s the first step towards defeat, it only serves to make the demon angrier. “An impossible task, it seems.”

“With my demonic influences?” Crowley’s smile has twisted into something more demonic now. “The ones you locked him up to protect him from? I think you just have to trust me here, mate.” The last word leaves his mouth as a bitter hiss, and Crowley barely keeps himself from gagging.

“Well, obviously I cannot trust a _demon_.” Gabriel is no longer looking at Crowley, only the finger near the button. “But I can let you know that if you break your word, Heaven has no kindness left for any of you.”

It’s not much of an agreement, but it’s what he can take.

Gabriel flicks his wrist, and Crowley doesn’t dare to move. The broadcast system is Heaven is all he can rely on at the moment, and if he fucks up, he has no Plan B to get Aziraphale out of here. He won’t stop trying, of course, but that will hardly matter in the end.

Crowley moves his eyes but not his finger when Aziraphale finally appears. He is being led through the Gates by Sandalphon who gives him the final shove towards Gabriel.

Aziraphale is still trembling like a leaf caught in the wind, and he is wearing that stoic servant-of-Heaven expression that Crowley loathes with his entire being. He’ll have to break it later, and force warm emotions through the cracks until Aziraphale can allow himself to be more than a blank canvas. However, Crowley does recognize the bravery Aziraphale is presenting. He isn’t crying, isn’t begging, isn’t angry. He is facing the Archangels after his punishment, trying to look none the worse for wear.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, nodding. “It’s been, uh…” He trails off, shoulders falling in the process. He lets out a sad sigh. “No. I suppose not.”

The archangel ignores him, and Crowley’s patience breaks.

As he leaps over the desk, Crowley makes sure to give Gabriel as a shove in the process. Then he’s by Aziraphale’s side, arm wrapped around his shoulders as he guides him away from Heaven.

“Let’s go, angel,” Crowley says gently and spreads out his wings so that Aziraphale cannot look over his shoulder for a final sight of his fellow angels.

Hugging Aziraphale close, he takes them to Earth.

Heaven’s bright light disappears, and Crowley’s lets out a relieved sigh when his sensitive eyes are shielded by both sunglasses and a thick layer of clouds. The sun is almost gone, and the air is heavy, warning them about the rainstorm about to arrive.

“Tadfield?” Aziraphale says and takes a few steps away from Crowley to take in the scene.

“Yeah. Couldn’t leave the Bentley.” The black car is waiting at the side of the road, but the humans are long gone. Crowley has no idea how long he’s been away, especially when the white room had felt like eternity manifested. The cold touch of the Bentley beneath his hands is a comfort, and Crowley almost collapses with exhaustion. Before he can do so, however, he spots the note stuck beneath the windscreen wipers.

_Crowley,_

_Call me when you get back and let us know if you found Aziraphale._

_I have taken the case with me for safekeeping._

_Newt did not touch your car._

There is a telephone number scribbled below, and Crowley decides not to call it before he’s taken a week-long nap. The witch isn’t important at the moment.

He burns the note away and moves to open the car door for Aziraphale. “I’ll get us home, don’t-“

“Oh, no, my dear, it’s lovely.” Aziraphale is on the other side of the street, staring at the small square between the houses. There’s a tree growing there, squirrels crawling along the branches and making the apples shake. A few birds are singing, flying towards the fields in the distance. “Such a beautiful village.”

Crowley slowly walks towards him until he can see the tears in Aziraphale’s busy eyes. He is taking in every movement, every sound, and how can one blame him for being enthralled by the scenery when Heaven had deprived him of any sign of the Earthly life he’d fought so hard to protect?

“We could move here,” Crowley says as he stands next to him.

Aziraphale reaches up to wipe his eyes. It’s a futile movement since they keep weeping. “All my books…” He jumps, spinning around to face Crowley instead. “Oh, my books! Are they – How long have I been gone?”

“About a week.” Crowley takes off his eyeglasses. It’s been the longest week he can remember. One of the worst, too. “I’m so sorry, angel. They tricked me. I could’ve been faster. Instead, I dined with a bloody box of metal.”

Aziraphale looks terribly confused, but Crowley needs alcohol in his system in order to even attempt to try to explain it.

“I’ll tell you on the way home,” he says and takes Aziraphale’s hand to lead him towards the Bentley. He doesn’t mean to force Aziraphale away, but he knows that after his isolation, it’s just a matter of time before the angel will become overwhelmed. Crowley prefers to be around a couch, blanket, and warm cocoa when that happens.

Inside the Bentley, Aziraphale keeps himself busy while Crowley drives. He strokes the leather with a touch so loving that the demon almost becomes jealous. The angel isn’t looking at him, but is resting his head against the window instead, watching fat drops of water splash against the glass.

Crowley turns on the music because Queen is his emotional support band.

“It felt longer,” Aziraphale says weakly, “than a week.”

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley says and tightens his grip on his steering wheel. It’s his fault, _his fault_. His stupidity.

“It’s alright, Crowley. I feared – I thought they’d try with the Hellfire again. And I didn’t know where you were, if Hell was in on it too. Then Gabriel promised – oh, he made so many promises. I didn’t- But I did, didn’t I? I thought it’d be just one more report, but it didn’t stop, and there was- There was nothing else to do.” Aziraphale digs bitten-down nails into the leather. “I’ve always hated that. How quiet it can be up there. Either quiet or- or _The Sound of Music_ , and I could never even be drunk for it.”

“Torture,” Crowley says out loud. He briefly wonders if it’d been worse if they’d forced Aziraphale to listen to _The Sound of Music_ on repeat the entire time he’d been there. “Bloody torture.”

“Nothing compared to Hell, I’m sure,” Aziraphale says automatically. His eyes may have cried, but his face is still too stiff. “Gabriel didn’t-“

“What? Break your fingers? Put you on a stake?” Oh, but they’d already done that, hadn’t they? “Heaven’s just as bad. They just use different instruments.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, and Crowley wishes to bite off his own tongue. Anger isn’t needed now. “Don’t think about it,” he says and tries not to think of how many papers Aziraphale has read in there, how many insults, how many hurtful words. “It was all lies. Doesn’t matter if you signed them or not.”

“My dear.” Aziraphale’s voice is hoarse with exhaustion. “You read the papers. Those weren’t lies.”

“They were meant to get under your skin. Don’t let them.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale lies.

Crowley moves his glance to stare ahead instead. It’s so dark, he can barely see the road, and the never-ending rain only serves to make it appear blurrier. The sound of the rain mixes with the drums from the radio.

“Must be horrible, driving in this weather,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“Want me to slow down?”

“No.” The angel shifts in his seat. “I’m looking forward to being back in the bookshop.”

* * *

The storm follows them to London. It’s only due to a drunk group of humans lingering too close to the bookshop that Crowley doesn’t spread out his wings to shield Aziraphale from the rain as they move from the Bentley to the door of the shop.

Crowley miracles it open and helps Aziraphale towards the worn couch in the backroom. The angel keeps stumbling, even when Crowley carries most of his weight.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says after almost stepping on one of the books Crowley has left open on the floor. “You’ve been looking through my books.”

“I was trying to figure out how to open a lock.”

“I don’t think I keep books on lockmaking.”

“You need to buy more books,” Crowley says, and he cannot believe the words just left his mouth.

Aziraphale lets out low laughter that sounds so fake that it hurts. He collapses on the couch and immediately begins to caress its fabric.

“Beats Heaven’s leather sofa,” Crowley says and miracles a cup of hot cocoa ready. “Here.”

Aziraphale accepts it with shaking hands. He inhales the steam in a happy sigh and begins to cry at the smell. “Crowley-“

A clash of thunder shakes the apartment. Aziraphale drops the cup with a low whine, and Crowley has his wings out before he is even aware of his action. He’s spun around to face the locked front door, black feathers shielding the angel behind him.

A beat passes, and Crowley exhales heavily as he realizes they are safe. For now. He hates how he has to add the last part, but even now, after his deal with Gabriel, he doesn’t dare to let his guard down.

“Just the bloody sky,” Crowley says and pats Aziraphale’s back. No angry archangel appearing in a strike of lightning. Just a storm that will pass eventually. “Good for his sake. If he dares to come here, I’ll make myself a new down pillow.”

“You wouldn’t,” Aziraphale says and looks at his vest that is now stained with cocoa. He pouts, and Crowley cannot say it isn’t a comforting change to the stoic mask he’d been wearing before.

“It won’t be necessary.” Crowley miracles the vest clean and new cup of cocoa. Later, he’ll miracle up something stronger for himself. “Gabriel won’t ever come near you again.”

Aziraphale lets his head hang. He hasn’t tasted his drink yet. “You shouldn’t be the one making that promise.”

“But I am.” Crowley sits down next to him, so close that Aziraphale cannot help but lean against him. “I won’t let him,” Crowley promises and maneuvers himself so that he can embrace Aziraphale while the angel drinks the first sip of his cocoa. “C’mere.” Aziraphale is distressingly cold, and Crowley starts rubbing his arms to stop the shivering.

His face ends up close to Aziraphale’s blond curls, and Crowley inhales deeply. The week’s absence of his angel suddenly hits him like a hit from above.

“It’s funny,” Aziraphale says quietly when half of the cocoa is gone. “Time. How fluid it can be. A week here, but-“

“The room was cursed, and you know it.”

“I’m not talking about the room.” Aziraphale reaches out to place the cup on the nearby coffee table, and Crowley moves with him, unable to break the skin contact. Aziraphale’s head turns to meet Crowley’s gentle stare. His lip wobbles. “We used to survive decades without seeing each other. Even a century. Now a few days become painful.”

Crowley holds his hand and heals his papercuts with the touch.

Aziraphale’s breath stutters before he can continue. “It’s my chest. Like a sword. On fire.” He pulls one hand free to put over his heart for emphasis. “Splitting me in two. I remember our discussion about eternity, and you were right. What torture it can be, under some circumstances. Without you, for once.”

Lightning strikes again, and Crowley holds him tighter, though Aziraphale doesn’t whimper this time. Crowley can feel his fear through his shaking, mixing with his own. His eyes can’t help but drift towards the door, narrowing in preparation.

Crowley wonders how long they’ll be afraid. If it’ll stop. But they’ve survived rain and thunder together before, and they will continue to do so. It’s all about shielding each other, finding shelter.

“Wasn’t all right about that. Eternity,” Crowley muses, and Aziraphale looks up at him. “Won’t be that bad. Under the _right_ circumstances.”

“Together,” Aziraphale finishes for him.

Thunder echoes outside, but not a single drop of rain can reach them in here.

“Always, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was greatly inspired by the scene at the airport where Gabriel arrives in a flash of lightning, and then wondering if Aziraphale ever learned to fear thunder because of that.
> 
> Thank you so very much for the lovely welcome to this fandom. It has made me so excited to write more - so far, I've in the middle of an upcoming one-shot, and then I'm planning a way longer WIP because I love angst and pining.
> 
> I'd love to have fellow fans to discuss GO, meta, fics and just life with, so if you ever feel like reaching out, I can be found as riathedreamer on tumblr.
> 
> Thanks for the support <3

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so I apologize for any mistakes I didn't manage to catch. I can be found as riathedreamer on tumblr and twitter.


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